A Walk Through Hell
by Sovoyita
Summary: Sometimes, a walk through hell is worth it as long as you get your angel back. Songfic. EmXR, All Human, T for occasional cursing.


**A/N: **I haven't been avoiding my stories. I swear I haven't. I'm just tired. I've been working on this one shot for weeks, adding tidbits here and there just to see if I could actually do it. Now that it's done, I'm very fond of it. I thought it was cute. Anyway, enjoy! I'll try updating soon. My other stories are just so much more complex than these and I always have to put more thought into them. Songfics just write themselves, it seems.

Oh yeah, a dear reviewer of mine told me about the description of Rosalie's car from Twilight. She said the description was from Midnight Sun when I was gabbing on about it and, since I've refused to read Midnight Sun until I'm sure that Ms. Meyer doesn't want to continue it, she kindly told me about it. Whoever you are (I'm sorry I've forgotten your name), thank you loads for helping me out there!

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

**A WALK THROUGH HELL**

I found humor in the stupidest things because without humor, life was a huge bowl of seriousness that tasted like sugarless oatmeal. This thought process normally kept me from committing proverbial suicide in my head every time I was stuck listening to my pessimistic Physics teacher's rants about how the sun would burn out in about two billion years and the entire world would freeze or explode or something along those lines. Then when Mr. We're-All-Going-To-Die would turn around to draw us a descriptive diagram of the apocalypse on his dry-erase board, I would turn to Rosalie and remind her that if we wanted to survive the end of the world (never mind the fact that we had two billion years before the sun turned into a big ball of flame-less gas) that we'd have to learn to survive Physics first. She would laugh quietly, elegantly, and flip her gorgeous golden hair over her shoulder and I would grin back at her, thanking the heavens for sending me such an angel.

The whole flirting thing had been going on for some time now and I absolutely loved it. Rosalie Hale, by far the most beautiful girl I had ever met, was a piece of work. The woman cursed like a sailor and knew how to kick a football across a field and she _definitely_ knew all about cars. It was like being falling in love with a guy except without the extra hardware installed. Thank god for that. The best part was that I was pretty sure Rosalie was starting to warm up to my advances. She'd given me a tough time at first, insulting my jock status and telling me to go screw myself (I wasn't one to not flirt with a beautiful girl the first time I met her), but we'd gotten to be pretty good friends when I saw her car, a friggin' cherry-red M3 BMW, and complimented her on her outstanding craftsmanship on the engine, the SMG shift paddles that had to have been customized because they simply _weren't _mass-produced, and the chrome side grills that shined even in the cloudy little speck of earth that we lived in. The rest was history.

So when she got all excited about getting a call from a modeling agency from Seattle that she had sent her resume into, I was there with her, jumping up and down and totally squealing like a chick just so she could see how excited I was for her. She freakin' _deserved _this opportunity to be famous and to get out of Forks, Washington. She may have liked it here but I knew she wanted to be in New York, modeling new clothing and putting herself out there for the future. It was what she had been working so hard for.

She'd gone off for the interview, but when I called her after it was over to see what the deal was, she didn't answer. No big deal; I would just talk to her the next day in class. Turns out it was a big deal. She wasn't there. I called her house, asked her mom where she was and was told that she was training for a photo shoot and she would be busy for awhile. It was no matter. I knew I'd have to see her eventually. We'd had this unspoken agreement. The one who flirted the other out got a free lunch. She wouldn't skip out on a chance to beat me just like I wouldn't skip out on a chance to buy her whatever she wanted from the cafeteria's crappy menu. It was kind of romantic in one of those stupid high school crush kind of ways.

It was a week before I saw her again and when I did, she just wasn't Rosalie anymore. Her golden hair wasn't that beautiful light-catching color. Instead, it looked like someone had dyed it a weird light-auburn brown color that just wasn't _Rosalie_. Then I looked at her outfit and practically threw up because what I saw just wasn't done. An acid green miniskirt and a neon pink top that was tight, tight enough that I could see that she had lost weight, and these stupid heels that matched her top. Her face was made up with dark eyes and fire-engine red lipstick. I could see the other guys looking at her, admiring the "improvements" that had been done to the once-perfect masterpiece.

I had known Rosalie for long enough to know that she didn't wear skirts like that. She liked fitting Levi's and military-grade boots that would stand up to the grease of a mechanic's garage. She'd worn stilettos before but those were a classic black and they suited her classic 1950's New York style. What she was wearing now was some of that new-age shit that plastic Barbie-remakes wore so they'd fit in with the other whores in the school. I was so shocked by the drastic change, so completely bewildered that I couldn't stop staring at her throughout class whereas she didn't even look at me. When class was over, I had to slap myself so I could catch up with her in the hall. When I did, it felt like I was talking to a different person.

"Hello, Emmett," she smiled. It wasn't her smile though. She had always worn this naturally almost-seductive smile that was perfect for her, one that showed off just the right amount of her pearly whites without looking like she was trying to out-smile a toothpaste advertisement. The smile she had on now, it was fake and innocent in a way that made you think that she was way too good for you. But I _knew _Rosalie and she _never _thought that.

"Hey," I started off hesitantly. How could I bring it all up without sounding like a total dick? "You haven't been around for awhile. How's the modeling thing going?" Her smile widened but I saw her pretty blue eyes—so completely lined with black that the color seemed more washed out than her normal sea-blue eyes—droop around the corners, could see how it looked like she was trying super hard to smile so her cheeks would lift her eyes back up again.

"Oh, it's going great! They've got me a photo shoot this weekend for a small-time dress designer in Seattle. It's not much but they say I've got potential!" Her smile was drooping and she sounded tired. Up close, I could see she was wearing concealer underneath her eyes. She'd never had to do that before.

"That's great," I said awkwardly. "Umm, your hair...it's...different." She smiled again and this one drooped even more. I had tried to smile but I don't think it worked. She waved her hand around, twirling a reddish-brown strand around her finger. It didn't look right.

"Yeah, they said it would be better if I didn't have the blond hair. Said it was too cliché with so many blond models out there." Her green-taloned fingers were gripping the strand of hair too tightly. It looked like she was trying to inconspicuously pull it out.

"Oh, well...it's...nice," I lied. It wasn't her. It wasn't right or nice at all. She grinned though, a real smile, as if me saying that made the entire thing better. The bell rang and she said she had to get going unless she wanted to be late. I watched her walk away, her frame looking thinner than I'd seen before, especially in the revealing clothing she wore. Then I realized that not once had she dropped the F-bomb. That was practically her favorite word.

--

In my head, the plan made sense. I'd go to the photo shoot where Rosalie would be, demand the photographers to relinquish their tyrannical grasp on her life, and then we'd run back to our Physics classroom so we could flirt with each other before I bought her lunch again. It seemed like a pretty solid plan if only for the fact that I didn't want to upset Rosalie...and I didn't know where they were holding the photo shoot. Seattle was pretty big in comparison to Forks. Plus, if Rosalie was happy with what she was doing (which I just _knew _she wasn't) then I would bite my tongue and just let her have her fun.

I was lucky to have overheard a distraught looking woman ordering twelve decafe soy lattes with no sugar or cream (I didn't see what the point was of ordering latte without either though), her glasses falling off her nose and her hair falling out of place. When she started struggling with her cardboard holders, I offered a hand and in turn got some very helpful information. Turns out that all those expensively flavorless drinks were being churned up for some models doing a catalog for a fancy company that sounded oddly familiar. Immediately, I began thinking back to names that Rosalie had told me about, a pamphlet full of different names and businesses that hired upcoming models. This had to be one of them. After offering to help the poor assistant carry back the drinks (still flavorless), I was well on my way to finding Rosalie.

--

Asymmetrical could describe the building I had entered. Everything looked like an abstract artist had swallowed his art and thrown it up on the walls. White walls with weird neon colored furniture that I was scared to sit on because it just seemed impossible to even do _that_ were what surrounded me. Hadn't they ever heard of demure things like white walls, red chairs and glass desks? What happened to _that _kind of fashion? Since when was a waiting room supposed to scare people away?

I followed the frantic assistant (she had told me her name at one point but she had rambled it out so quickly I couldn't really remember it) to the back room as was met with a view of a dozen models all being preened and primped by makeup and hair artists, large clouds of powder and hairspray going into the vents, surely up and out with the intention of destroying the ozone. I looked at the hair of these models and found the disgusting auburn color that Rosalie had donned on her own head the previous day. The other models themselves had boring hair colors, glossy black, dirty blonds and bright reds, whereas Rosalie's hair color—the natural one, mind you—would have stood out like a glorious light in a dark room, glowing angelically upon her beautiful head.

I sighed to myself. Rosalie was turning me into a totally romantic, poetic schmuck.

I crept over to her, a tray of drinks in hand, and offered her one as an annoyed guy with a thin black straightener in his hand arched a thinly waxed eyebrow at me, his freakishly curled eyelashes creeping me out as he glared at the way I hogged his straightening space. I just smiled and politely pushed him out of the way. He huffed and stomped away, the heels of his weird tan leather boots clicking loudly against the hot pink tile floor.

Rosalie grabbed the foam container and grimaced when she took a sip but quickly hid her expression when she saw the other models drinking daintily from their own drinks. I knew what Rosalie liked and this definitely wasn't it. She preferred unhealthy drinks that she claimed "would kill me but ensure that I had a smile on my face",a piping hot dutch white-chocolate double-shot espresso with heavy cream and six sugars for good measure. Obviously, her taste buds were getting being caressed as much as they would be if she drank warm water.

She didn't look up at first, looking like she was mouthing 'thank you' so quietly so it was impossible for anyone to hear, but when she did, her eyes widened in shock while I hid a grimace. Bright blue lipstick and dark and heavy eyeliner shaded her eyes, her once rosy and pale complexion now totally annihilated by a heavy matte-looking white foundation. Clearly they were doing a look that was meant to be mysterious. If only they knew that a classic look like Rosalie's was very versatile and so much better.

"Ey, you zere! Vat are you voing ere?" The phony accent that was some weird cross between French and Italian made me cringe and I saw Rosalie shudder a bit. I turned to see some guy with a combed mustache dressed in all black and a white sweater tied around his shoulders approached, a filtered cigarette held "delicately" between his fingers. My eyes kept on drifting back to the sweater. There were so many jokes hidden in that sweater...

"He's just-" Rosalie started but I cut her off as an impromptu plan formed in my head, brought to me as inspiration of the country-club-tennis-player-poetry-club guy.

"I've come to work as a model for your establishment, sir," I replied as straightly as I could. I thought about bowing but I didn't really feel like inflating the guy's ego. His mustache did that enough for him already.

"Veally?" he questioned, stalking around me as if he was trying to be intimidating. I kind of laughed.

"Vell, ve could alvays use anozer male model for ze shoot and I'm sure Tanya vould vove to vork vith you," he said, leering at me with a smirk. Meanwhile, Rosalie was behind me, clearly at a loss for words as she garbled on incoherently about not being a model.

"Rosalie," the man said hotly. "Zere is no veason for zis gabbing on vike a fish," he said, obviously not making any sense at all. Since when did fish gabble?

"So," I interrupted. "Where do you want me?"

--

Two hours later and the gay guy with the weird eyelashes was smirking down at my hair as if he'd just won a huge competition. It was all flat and straight and _glossy_ and freakishly long now that the curls were out of it. I wasn't allowed to touch it, though, which was fine with me because some of the weird yellow goop they had dripped in it earlier on had looked acidic and I didn't want that crap on my skin. Some other guy (okay, it was a girl but she obviously had taken offense to me calling her 'Miss' so I decided to politely call her 'Sir') was "fixing my face" and putting on tons of weird stuff all over it, occasionally complaining that I had so many freckles, freckles that I didn't remember having. In the end, I ended up looking like one of those modern-day vampires with pale white skin and red stained lips. And when Rosalie saw me, she flipped.

"What the hell are you doing?!" she growled quietly, her grossly-colored hair now hidden nicely in the shadows of the dark hallway she had pulled me in to. "Are you absolutely insane?" I smiled at her and put a hand on her shoulder, blinking my eyes uncomfortably at the blue contacts they had stuck in them to cover my hazel eyes.

"Rose," I began. "If this is what makes you happy, I'll stand beside you until the world comes to an end—or you get bored, whichever comes first—but for now, I thought it would be a good idea to see why you like it so much." Rosalie just looked at me, horrified, and lifted a hand to my hair, running her fingers through it. They shook.

"They ruined your hair," she murmured sadly. "And your eyes. I liked them better before." I shrugged and squeezed her shoulder again.

"I just want you to be happy, Rosie, and if this is what makes you happy, I'll stand beside you. I'd walk through hell for you, babe." I could see her smiling in the dark, the smile that was _hers, _before leading her back to Mr. Fritalian over there with his weird sweater and combed mustache.

--

"No, no, no, no," Rosalie murmured in horror as she saw what I was wearing and who I was wearing it with. Never before had I thought I would end up in head-to-toe leather looking one of the lost Village People that you always heard about. Admittedly, I'd never seen my calves look so defined, but really, I think it was a bit much when the person next to me was wearing much less than I was.

Tanya, it seemed, was rather touchy feely when it came to me and the leather only seemed to encourage her. Moments before she had entered the room, Rosalie had warned me of several things.

"Don't show her you're scared. That'll only encourage her. She can _smell _fear."

"Don't stare at her hair or her eyes too much. She's like Medusa. She can freeze you if you stare at her eyes too deeply and she will probably kill you if you point out that she has split ends. She's been banging the editing guy, so he airbrushes them away because she doesn't want to get her hair cut because they like her to have longer hair."

"Never, _ever_, take any of her suggestions. She'll want you to put your hands on her ass but just don't do it. She's worse than a cat in heat. She'll be begging for it but you must resist! The editing guy is fishy. I don't think you can trust her after she's been with him."

It made me laugh to find out that everything she was saying would have been true if I hadn't already seen Rosalie's own Glare Of Impending Doom, a glare that she dished out only on very special occasions.

Rosalie's shoot was before mine and I was given the chance to get a peek into what was going on. What I saw made me want to throw flannel pajamas over Rosalie's scantily clad body and hope to God that I got the fireproof, chastity-belt-included ones that you couldn't open unless you had a survival knife and a marriage certificate. She was sitting there on a leather couch, her face looking as unlike her as it had before and her legs spread like one of those Playboy models that I swore I had never seen before.

In that moment, Tanya was pulling me toward our own shoot while I fought against her sharply clawing nails to reach Rosalie. I yelled to Rosalie and I knew she could hear but she didn't look up. Finally, I turned back to Tanya, told her to "shove it before I tell Katie that you've been trying to heat things up with Garrett because, honey, you know that girl could slap the bitch off your face", and waltzed up to Rosalie's shoot, lifted her from her leather seat and followed my primitive instincts and just placed her on my shoulder and walked out. Rosalie was good about keeping her dignity and pride so she just laughed and leaned her elbow on my back whilst leaning her chin on her palm. When I finally settled her down in the lobby, she looked at them with distaste and muttered about it being more dangerous sitting than walking in nine inch heels.

I looked at Rosalie and she looked at me and we just stared until it became too much and we just laughed. She pulled me close and gave me a soft kiss, the first of many I hoped, her fingers twirling in my hair.

"It's not permanent, is it? They didn't do that weird Japanese straightening system, did they?" I shook my head and grabbed a lock of her hair and repeated the question minus the Japanese thing. She looked horrified.

"Oh fuck no! I told them I would change it myself and I got the temporary color. It washes out in ten washes."

"Good," I said, relieved. I loved Rosalie dearly, a fact that I had yet to come out with, but I didn't think I could stand looking at her hair for long if it was this color. "Let's go wash your hair right now. We'll wash it twenty times if that's what it takes. And that makeup, honey, just isn't your color," I scoffed loudly, fluttering my eyelashes like the hair guy and Rosalie laughed.

"I was serious, Rose," I reminded her as we left the building, Rosalie wearing a pair of blue jeans, my button-down shirt, and a pair of heavy boots that she always carried around in her car for whenever she needed to work on her car. We were on our way to a coffee house that would add extra cream and sugar and sugary flavoring for only ten cents every addition.

"What about?" She looked up at me with those big blue eyes that weren't covered in makeup, her lips all red and beautiful as she gave me _her _smile.

"A walk through hell's worth it as long as I get my angel back."

**A/N: **Hope you all enjoyed my first Emmett X Rosalie fiction. I liked it. And I hope this gives you the incentive to go listen to the song **A Walk Through Hell**. It's really amazing. Anyhoo...Review please!

Oh yes, if any of you all enjoy Death Note fics and yaoi fics where L and Light/Raito Yagami are the couple, I highly suggest a new story I have just recently found. It's by a new author by the name of **Exorcism Expert** and the story is called **Chemical**. I don't know how many of you like that kind of thing (I was in the closet about it for months before I told my friend about my obsession and she's been totally understanding of it; I had been about ready to go to confession for the first time and confess my 'sins' to an old guy I don't know) but I thought I'd let you know. Word of A/Ns seem to work best when spreading news through Fan Fiction. Remember, this is an manga fic I'm talking about. For those of you who have never read manga before or you only recall faint memories of Sailor Moon, let me tell you, this is so much cooler. If you have your doubts, check out Death Note on Youtube. The anime follows the manga almost perfectly. It's amazing.

I feel so weird telling you about a manga fic on this Twilight story. It's kind of cool. But I digress.

Seriously. Review, please!


End file.
